Useful euphemism

Precisely 5 hours after last suggesting I had zero date action in play, I struck up a Gmail chat with one of ye olde bare-chested dudes from days past.

(See #4.)

Bare Chest and I had one previous such chat on Memorial Day weekend.  To characterize it as titillating would be exceedingly polite.  X-rated would be more accurate. I enjoyed it as a girl should enjoy a frank sex discussion on occasion.   And since this is a family blog, that is where the details stop.

Today's chat started out benignly enough. 

BC: How was jury duty?

K:   Long, but interesting. We finished last Thursday.

BC:  Cool.

K:  Medical malpractice. We exonerated some MDs.

BC:  I would love to hang out with you sometime.

K:  Sure. Realistically, what would you have in mind?

BC:  Let's grab some coffee and take it from there.

We talked about setting up a date.  Five minutes later, he asked me what I was wearing. Two minutes later he crossed into a territory I am now censoring ... in other words, the meat of the conversation.  I went with him for a spell.

And I'm still blushing a little.

(This is not the first time you don't get the whole story.  Readers who have been around might recall the expression "satisfactory goodnight kiss" to discuss the more intimate details of my outings with the CFO.)

For the myriad of personal life details I am compelled to spill (down to how many boxes of cereal I consume per week), I'm amused how shy I am when it comes to discussing sex.  Which partly has to do with a readership that includes both my former pastor and my mother.  And that a Lady Never Really Tells.

Nonetheless, I'm 36 years old.  Sex comes up either conversationally or actively (although by no means exclusively) on many dates I have been on.  Perhaps as a reader you have inferred this. I'd hope that since I don't admit to doing anything more than kiss a boy, yet just confessed that sex frequently comes up during my dates, that you can agree I've kept a somewhat tactful lid on the subject.

Entirely coincidentally, as well as fortuitously, I today clicked on The Boston Globe advice blog by Meredith Goldstein, Love Letters.  ("Sometimes love stinks. Let us help.") Goldstein invites readers to anonymously submit their woes; the host herself first offers a solution, then opens it for comments, and often hundreds of readers weigh in. It's good stuff.

Here is the intro to the June 2nd entry titled "Allergic to 'Grilled Cheese'":

"A disclaimer from Meredith: When this letter arrived in my Love Letters InBox, it was too risqué to post on Boston.com .... But because I believe the reader’s question is valid and worthy of our discussion, I’ve decided to post it -- with all of the writer's R-rated phrases replaced by my G-rated euphemisms. I'm asking that you use my euphemisms in your comments so I can post them .... "

You can read the entry if you're so moved.  However, I will tell you now that this is a column about sex.  "Making Grilled Cheese" is not about making grilled cheese.  The kitchen is not a room in the house. And it is f#$*ing hilarious.  Especially when 300-plus readers got into the spirit and extended the metaphor to all facets of preparation, cooking and consuming ... among other activities.  All the while extending relatively useful advice.

I'm inspired.  I'm all ready now to brainstorm more creative ways to tell a story about sex, should I find myself heading into Satisfactory Goodnight Kiss territory anytime soon.  My mother might still not approve .... but then again, maybe she'll not read under the surface and just be glad I'm baking cookies for a friend.

Which would certainly be OK.